Even so, the state makes the annual application process extremely difficult. The waiting time between applying and notification of approval is long. I have met people with bronchitis and walking pneumonia who were waiting for approval and could not afford the doctor.

Now, I have learned of another friend who had to call 911 and an ambulance for mental health hospitalization after two years of gaining and then losing, applying again, gaining, then losing, etc. her medical insurance.

Okay--so rather than provide her with medication for depression and anxiety and provide her with therapy for same, we now have to pay for a week of hospitalization, a month of ongoing outpatient hospitalization and ongoing therapy. The hospital took care of the application for disability and medical insurance and now this friend is back among the mentally living, an active and valuable parent and participant in society.

But what harm has been done to the elasticity of her brain cells in the meantime? Not to mention those of her children?

Keep in mind: I am a middle-class white person. We own a house. My children go to a fabulous public school. I do not hang out at the local homeless shelter. The people that I am discussing here are friends made from among all classes, races, religions and incomes via this public school.

And yes, I have friends in the arts and writing community, which tends to be less stable than, say, the financial world. Still, those friends have, until recently, been steady wage earners, home owners, apartment renters, teachers, child-care-givers, valuable people to any society for more than their creativity. But after losing job, house, etc., some people find they need mental health assistance including stabilizing mental health meds. How does it makes sense that we are not providing the backup to these people? I do not understand.

I repeat: Our family values MUST include making sure that people can get the medical support they need.

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About Me

Some houses are haunted. Some haunt us. I am writing a house much like this one, (but not quite as fancy) located in West Adams, which is a mostly middle class African-American enclave somewhat West of USC, in the heart of L.A. We--white and Jewish, clinging to Middle Class by our fingernails--were fortunate to have found that particular house in that particular neighborhood at that time. The more I learned of the history of West Adams, which started as a wealthy white area, became wealthy black in about 1948, had a freeway rammed through Black-owned mansions, yet even after the crack epidemic, was still a strong and caring neighborhood, the more I cared for and respected our neighbors. Now we have moved. I still miss both house and neighborhood. The novel I am writing, "The Color of Safety," is both an homage to the neighborhood and an imagining of its first one hundred years through the inhabitants, black and white, Christian, atheist, Muslim and Jewish, of one wonderful house in what remains a wonderful part of an often unfriendly city.